


Angel, Interrupted

by emmadilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Janitor Dean, M/M, Mental Health Patient Castiel (Supernatural), Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Psychology, Religious Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-09 00:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12265653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmadilla/pseuds/emmadilla
Summary: Dean gets a job at Stanford hospital as a janitor, which helps support him and Sam as Sammy attends school.  One night as he makes his rounds in the psych ward, he finds a crying patient and consoles him, not knowing that this act of kindness could potentially change his life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you goes out to the lovely and wonderful @chaoticsatisfaction for the prompt that lead to this that she graciously posted in the "Destiel Fan-Fiction Prompts, Writings, and Such" group on Facebook. Without her prompt, this fic would not exist, so be sure to thank her!
> 
> This is a multi-chapter WIP fic, though I don't have a timeline for when the next update will be posted. I have several other WIP fic, plus another one that I'm working on developing, so just stay tuned!

 

 

\------

 

 

Dean sighed audibly as he emerged from the bathroom, toilet brush and cleaner in hand, stretching his back as it was stiff from bending over. He deposited the items in his cart and started back down the hallway, on his way to the next bathroom. Being a janitor wasn’t a particularly hard job, and it was going to be paying pretty decent, decent enough to support him and his brother while Sam went to college. They might be pretty much just floating by paycheck to paycheck, but hey they were floating, and that was saying something. Not everybody was keeping their head above water these days.

 

That being said, cleaning toilets still sucked.

 

Dean whistled to himself almost in rhythm with the squeak of his cart’s wheels, bored out of his skull and trying like hell to suppress the yawning. He’d thought taking a night shift would be easy, but this shit was for the birds. Maybe it would get better the longer he worked it, but he was only about a week in and his body wasn’t adjusted yet. No matter how tired he was when he got home, he would usually only sleep for a few hours until the sunlight dragged him out of bed. Sam had suggested black-out curtains for the room, but they didn’t exactly have any money to spare for extras, so Dean hung up the thickest blanket they had and made do. The sunlight would still pierce through, but it wasn’t as bad as when he was only contending with blinds, so he wouldn’t complain.

 

He stopped his cart in front of another bathroom and was about to grab his cleaning supplies when he heard a whimper. He whipped his head around, unsure at first if he had heard what he thought he’d heard, but no it was definitely there … a soft, sobbing sound that started with a wail and ended with choking gasps. Dean peered down the adjoining hallway to see a patient curled up on the floor, head in his hands, crying like a lost child. Dean stepped back for a moment and looked around, hoping to see a Nurse or maybe even a Doctor, even though who was he kidding, Doctors weren’t going to be around at this time of night. He chewed on his lip as he regarded the patient, unsure of what to do. In training, he was told that these patients were not necessarily violent, but to still be cautious. That warning put him on edge a bit, but something in him couldn’t ignore the guy. He quietly stepped forward, holding his hands out to appear as non-threatening as possible as he said, “Hey there, buddy, what’s going on?” His voice came out soft, as if he was comforting a wounded animal, but his words got him no reaction from the man as he continued to just cry. “Are you okay?” he asked, reaching out to touch the man on his shoulder, but the man simply jerked away and cowered in fear, wailing.

 

Dean jumped back, scared that he had somehow hurt him, even though he knew he hadn’t. The man tried to sink back into the floor, as if he could disappear if only he tried hard enough. Dean looked around again to see if anyone was going to respond to a patient crying and saw no one coming to the rescue. _Great, just great_. Running out of options fast, he did the only thing he could think of at the moment, the only thing that ever worked to calm Sammy down when he was having a nightmare.

 

He sang.

 

His voice was soft and broke a little as he started singing, “Hey Jude, don’t make it bad … take a sad song and make it better, remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better … hey Jude …” It was a song his mother used to sing to him as a lullaby when he was young. It might seem like an odd lullaby, but his mother wasn’t exactly one to do things traditionally. After she’d died, Dean started singing it to Sam, the only thing he felt he could do to keep his mother’s memory alive for the toddler as she’d passed when Sammy was only three.

 

And, lo and behold, the singing seemed to work, as the patient’s sobs reduced to sniffles. But as soon as Dean stopped, he started up again, mumbling between sobs, “No no no no, don’t leave, please don’t leave me!”

 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Dean said, scrambling for the verse where he’d left off. “And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain. Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders, for well you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little colder …”

 

As he continued the song, the man eased up again, eventually uncurling himself and just sitting with his legs crossed on the floor, swaying slightly to the melody. As the end of the song started coming up, Dean hoped that he wouldn’t freak out again, so he added a few more bars to the end, softer and softer so stopping the song wouldn’t come as a jarring shock. Thankfully, it worked, and as the song wound down, the man looked around as if he was seeing his surroundings for the first time. “Where … I … I’m in the hospital, right?” the guy asked, his voice hoarse and gravelly.

 

“Yeah, yeah this is Stanford.” Dean went to reach for the man, intending to help him up, but he withdrew with a whine. Dean immediately took a few steps back, holding his hands up, “Sorry, sorry! Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay.” He licked his lips, racking his brain to try to figure out what to do. “My, uh, my name’s Dean. I work here.”

 

“Dean?” the man asked, the name somehow sounding even better when said in that low pitch. “Are you a nurse?”

 

Dean chuckled. “No, no, I’m just the janitor. I clean up the place at night. Just started about a week ago, actually, so you might not have seen me around just yet.”

 

The man nodded as he looked Dean over. The scrubs that the janitors wore were pretty close to what the nurse usually donned, so it was an easy mistake to make. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I must be a horrible sight …” His voice cracked on the last word and he cleared his throat. He sounded like he could use a sip or two of water, but he didn’t budge from his spot on the floor, and with the way he reacted to being touched earlier, Dean wasn’t about to attempt it again.

 

Instead, Dean smiled widely as he said, “Nah, that’s not true.” He lowered himself to the floor, sitting across from him so he was at eye level with the patient. Unable to help himself, he added, “I mean, this is way more interesting than cleaning toilets or being chased by a rat.” He finally got a smile from the man, small as it was. But hey, a smile was still a smile, so he was counting it was a win. “What’s your name?”

 

“Cas … Castiel,” the patient replied, stuttering ever so slightly.

 

“Cool, that’s a pretty unique name,” Dean replied, just now noticing scratches on Castiel’s arms that were bleeding. “Cas, shit you need a nurse. I’m gonna go find …” Dean couldn’t get the rest of his sentence out before he felt a tight grip on his arm, holding him in place. He whipped back around to see Cas’ pleading blue eyes as he leaned forward, keeping a hold on Dean. The older Winchester’s heart started beating rapidly, unsure of what he was intending on doing.

 

Tears started to form in Castiel’s eyes once again as he pleaded, “No, please, don’t leave. If you leave I’ll get lost again, and … and I don’t want to go back to that place. Please don’t make me go back to that place, please!

 

“Okay, okay! Hey, I’m right here,” Dean replied, keeping his tone even and soothing. Castiel had quite the grip on him, and he knew he would have a bruise there for sure, but if it meant that Cas wouldn’t have another breakdown, he didn’t mind it. He did have to get help for Cas, though, so he decided to approach it from a different angle. “Hey, you’ve been here longer than me, right? Why don’t you show me where the nurse’s station is? We can go together, okay? What do you say?”

 

Cas’ eyes glazed over as if he was deep in thought, and he wasn’t sure if he was actually processing what he’d proposed or not. Several minutes passed before he finally aid, “Okay.” Dean still avoided touching Cas himself as they got up, but Cas kept his iron grip on the man, as if he was afraid he would disappear if he let go. He slowly pointed down the hallway they were in. “That way.” Dean let him lead, and Cas took several encouraging steps forward, until they got to a large double doorway and he all of a sudden stopped. “No, no, they’re going to get mad, I can’t …” He started mumbling nonsense and Dean scrambled to come up with something, anything to propel him forward.

 

In a firm, authoritative tone he told him, “Don’t worry, I won’t let them, okay? I got you.” Cas didn’t cry, but he did take a step back, and as a pre-emptive measure Dean started humming the same mother’s lullaby again. It seemed to work like a charm and the pair slowly moved forward, down another hallway until they finally made it to the nurse’s station.

 

To Dean’s disbelief, there was nobody there. _Seriously? I thought they weren’t supposed to leave …_ But it seemed that whether they were supposed to or not, there was no nurse waiting there. _Fuck, what do I do?_ Dean wondered, still humming the tune to keep Cas calm as he looked around. Fortunately, they weren’t standing out there forever, as a young brunette nurse entered the ward, one that he’d fortunately met a few times so he at least knew who he would be dealing with.

 

“Dean? What are you doing with a patient?” Meg asked.

 

“I, uh, just found him out in the hallway crying. I didn’t see a nurse or anything but I got him calmed down. He scratched himself, though, so I brought him to the nurse’s station but no one’s here?”

 

“No one …” Meg started to say, but stopped as her eyes glanced over to the desk, seeing it empty. Dean couldn’t say for sure, but he swore he heard Meg _growl_ to see it unoccupied. “Fucking Bela, can’t wait for me to get here to take her damn break.” She shot a sympathetic look toward the janitor. “Sorry, babe, I’ll take him off your hands. I know this guy pretty well.” She approached Cas, who seemed to be in his own little world, and said gently, “Castiel, you with me?”

 

He seemed to perk at hearing her voice. “Meg?”

 

She smiled. “Yeah, it’s me, buddy. Looks like you got scratched up there pretty good. Want me to take a look at it?”

 

Cas nodded and finally released Dean’s arm, following Meg automatically as she lead him away. Dean awkwardly waved goodbye before heading back for his cart. He suddenly didn’t feel tired anymore as he grabbed the brush and cleaner, heading into the bathroom for another round of scrubbing. _Well, tonight sure was interesting._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ba-bam! Early update for my Destiel lovlies. :)

Dean was dead on his feet by the time he made it back to the apartment he shared with Sam. He tried to be as quiet as possible so he didn’t disturb his brother, but he still accidentally walked into their dining table and cursed quietly under his breath, both at the pain and at the noise he made. Sam continued to snore, so it seemed he hadn’t wakened when he heard his brother come in. Dean sighed softly in relief as he tip-toed to the bathroom. Once the door was closed, he turned on the lights, almost blinding himself for a second. He blinked several times and once his vision cleared, he undressed and hopped in the shower, needing just a quick wash-up before he went to bed. He hadn’t gotten particularly dirty during shift, but he hated the smell and feel of the cleaning chemicals he used on his skin.

 

Nothing a little Irish Spring couldn’t fix.

 

Once he was done, he pulled on a pair of fresh boxers he kept in the cabinet for ease of changing and turned off the lights before he exited the bathroom, collapsing on his bed, which sat across the room from Sam’s. They could only afford a studio apartment for the time being, so it was a little cramped, but this way Sammy didn’t have to work and could focus on his studies, which was all Dean wanted. Dean, he was made for working, for physical labour. No real special studies required for him. But Sam was special, Sam was _smart_ , and Dean was just gonna be _goddamned_ if he was gonna let Sam waste that talent. They may have to sacrifice now, but it was all for a reason. As Dean looked over at his brother’s sleeping figure, just barely lit by the moonlight that slipped through the cracks in the blinds and around the blanket that was hung, he smiled, knowing that Sam was making a happy life for himself. That was all Dean really wanted, was for Sam to be happy.

 

He was asleep once he closed his eyes, and he actually slept a full six hours. It was more sleep than he’d gotten in a week, and he wasn’t sure if it was because his body was adjusting to the schedule or if he was just too exhausted. Either way, he wasn’t going to question it as he woke feeling more refreshed than he had for a long time, even before he got the job. He still yawned here and there, but it was much more manageable. Between the rest he finally got and the pot of coffee he slowly drank before he went back in to work, he felt like he was walking on air as he grabbed a cart and started his rounds.

 

Hardly any of the janitors liked to take the psych ward, but Dean didn’t mind it. He was cleaning at night anyway, and most of the patients were asleep. Those that weren’t were glued to the TV in the common area and acted like they didn’t even know he was there. The only one that had interacted with him in any way was Castiel … speaking of, he wondered if the man was okay. He would have to ask Meg when she came in.

 

As it turned out, he didn’t even really have to wait to ask Meg to find out how Cas was doing. As Dean rounded one of the corners, he saw the man standing outside a room, looking off into the distance. As he heard the squeaky wheels on the cart, he turned his blue eyes to see Dean coming and he _smiled_. He actually smiled. Dean was a little surprised, but since it seemed he was feeling much better than the previous night, he was happy for the man. He nodded and said, “Hey, Cas, what’s goin' on, man?”

 

“Much better than last night,” he replied. “I was hoping to see you.”

 

“You were?”

 

“Yes. I … I wanted to apologize for last night. Dr. Shurley wanted to trial a different medicine with me and … well, it seems I did not have a very good reaction to it.”

 

“Aw shit, that sucks, man. Did they fix it?”

 

The blue eyed man nodded. “He saw me this morning and took me off of it. They’re going to try something else.”

 

“Great! Awesome. I hope it works out for you.”

 

Cas smiled again, a wide smile that made Dean feel all warm inside. “Thank you, Dean.” He paused a moment before he added. “I think I’m going to go to bed, now.”

 

“Alright, man. Sleep good.”

 

With that, Cas turned around and retreated back into the room that he had been standing in front of, closing the door behind him. As Dean walked his cart down the hall, he realized he had a smile on his own face. 

 

As he was wrapping up for the night, he was cleaning around the nurse’s station, which fortunately was only currently occupied by Meg. He’d met Bela once or twice, but she seemed stuck up and cold and he wasn’t digging the vibe he got from her. But Meg, she was sweet and kind and treated him like he was another human being instead of a lowly life form consigned to janitorial work. They chatted as he emptied the garbage bags and mopped, and the subject of Castiel came up.

 

“Hey, by the way,” Meg started, “I’m sorry about last night. Bela should have been here to take care of Castiel when he was having his meltdown. Sorry you had to deal with that.”

 

Dean shrugged. “It wasn’t really a problem. He actually caught me in the hallway earlier, apologized for acting like that. Said it was some issue with his meds or something.”

 

Meg’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Dean swore if not for the physical limitations they would have shot straight up off her forehead. “Really? Cas talked to you?”

 

“Yeah. Is that weird or something?”

 

“Well, yeah. Castiel is … he’s very sensitive. Real particular in who he chooses to interact with. Dr. Shurley is the only doctor that has been able to make any kind of real progress with him, and he’s seen _lots_ of doctors over the years.”

 

The revelation came as a bit of surprise. After all, Dean wasn’t a doctor of any kind and didn’t really have a clue when it came to medical stuff, least of all mental illness. But one part of her statement really stood out to him. “How long exactly has Cas been here?”

 

“Oh, probably ten years or so. He was already here when I started working here.” Her eyes darted around as she looked to see if they were alone or not before she leaned toward him. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this - HIPAA regulations and all - but Castiel went through a lot. He was born into this weird Catholic-based cult and when his parents died, I guess they had set it up to where he would go to the cult leaders. They abused him pretty bad, in just about every way. He was finally freed when the church was raided by the FBI. They weren’t even expecting to find anything like abuse there, they were looking for paperwork and records and stuff, but when they went down to the basement …” Meg shuddered as she continued, “… he hadn’t seen sunlight in years at that point. He had been starved and beaten and it was a miracle he was still alive. Poor guy has pretty severe PTSD, not to mention all the stuff the cult leaders did to mess with his head.”

 

Dean was floored by the information. He stayed silent for a minute, not really knowing what to say. What did someone say to that? That was just … crazy. No wonder Cas had shrunk away from him, he probably had been conditioned that touching was bad, that it lead to pain. When he finally did speak again, he asked, “And this Dr. Shurley, he … he thinks he can fix him?”

 

Meg shrugged. “He hopes so. I mean, he’s actually responding to him, which is way more than he’s done to other doctors.” She sighed as she added, “It’s a lot more hopeful than it’s been in a while. Sometimes it just takes the right person to come along.”

 

The rest of their chatter was light, and for that Dean was grateful as he didn’t think he could stand any more of the bleak, heavy talk. As he finished up and deposited his cart back in its place in the basement, he fingered his keys as he walked back to his car. There was one thing and one thing only on his mind as he slipped the keys in the ignition: Cas. Cas, the blue eyed man with a mess of black hair who he swore looked like an angel. He felt incredibly sorry for the guy; he’d really been dealt a raw deal in life. Abused for years, only to be finally freed and he was still a prisoner in his mind, even ten or more years later. So much time gone. He wondered if he would ever fully recovered. He hoped he would. In his lucid moment earlier that evening, he seemed very nice and sweet, the only indications that he was a little … off … was the stiff way he talked. Like he wasn’t used to conversing with others. Not everyone might notice, but he had. He’d thought perhaps the man felt awkward around him, maybe because he was someone new, but now … well, the reasons felt a lot more sinister now.

 

Dean deftly avoided the dining table this time, slipping into the bathroom and taking a quick shower before pulling on a new pair of boxers and falling into his bed. He didn’t fall asleep right away, though, instead staring at the ceiling and thinking, wondering about the man at the hospital until he finally drifted off, blue eyes haunting him in his dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the little bit of delay in updating, I got kind of wrapped up in a few other things, but my NaNoWriMo goal is to power out my wip updates for this whole month, so here we go!

The next several weeks followed in the same rhythm. Get up, get some coffee, maybe even get a meal in - “breakfast” for Dean was usually more like a late lunch or early dinner for most folks - and then put together a dinner for Sam - which usually turned into the next day’s meal for him - and wave goodbye to his brother as he walked out the door to go to work. Even the roads he took were the same, favouring the back roads over the highway so he could have as peaceful a drive as possible going in. Sam was doing well in his classes so far, and Dean was proud to see him take to college like a duck to water. It just seemed natural, Sam the academic and Dean the worker bee. They had a nice flow going to their schedule, and even though money was a little tight, all that really mattered to them was that they were together. Since Dean had started getting regular paychecks, they had been able to upgrade their kitchen contents a little bit, going from ramen and mac n cheese to a few simple, homemade meals. Spaghetti, meatloaf, homemade pizza, lasagna, the easy kind of meals that they didn’t have to slave over and could just heat up on the stove or stick in the oven and pretty much forget about it until it was ready. Some people might think it weird that Dean played hausfrau, making sure that the apartment was clean and dinner was made before he left for work, but taking care of Sam was all Dean really knew and it was all he really cared about.

 

When their mother had died, their father had withdrawn, becoming a recluse and an alcoholic. He wasn’t so much physically violent as he was just _not there_ in any way, besides some paychecks and a roof over their head most of the time. It was a goddamn miracle either of the boys had made it through school, getting up and getting ready, eating breakfast, getting dressed, making lunch … much less getting through the actual academics of it. But Dean had been determined, and Sam had been smart enough to keep up, and so in the end they had both graduated high school. Once he’d graduated, Dean had immediately gotten a full time job. He’d been working part time before, trying to save up as much money as possible, but he transitioned to full time as soon as possible. Sam was going to want to go to college, and Dean was the only one who was going to be able to help him. He wasn’t about to leave him hanging, like his old man did.

 

It may have been an oddly close brotherly relationship for some folks, but that was just the way the Winchester brothers were. And Dean didn’t give a goddamn what anyone thought of it.

 

He’d been able to establish a nice rhythm at work as well. He’d roll in about fifteen minutes early, just so he could snatch up the good cart that barely squeaked and could easily turn, and then he’d do a quick inventory check on it to make sure he wasn’t low on anything he would need. Then, after a quick piss break, he’d head on up to the top floor, the psych ward. The instructions for the ward were pretty standard. Clean the bathrooms, wipe down the tables, empty any garbage cans, mop the floors. There was no carpet, so he didn’t have to vacuum, and that may or may not have been part of the reason he took that floor. Maybe it was weird that he’d rather clean more bathrooms in exchange for not having to vacuum, but he didn’t care, vacuuming was just one chore he’d always hated. He’d grown up with wall to wall carpet, and he was pretty much the only one to clean, so he’d had to do it. He’d tried to ignore it now and then but eventually it would eat at him too much and he’d cave. It’s not like it was _hard_ , necessarily, it was probably just because it had been so much of a daunting chore for a six year old, even now he still didn’t like to do it.

 

Ever since their encounter in his first week of working there, Castiel would catch him outside of his room and they’d talk for a minute or two. He figured Cas was the kind of person to like to keep a schedule, and once they started he never stopped. At first he would just awkwardly say hi and exchange a few pleasantries before he went to bed, but after a while he started making attempts to converse more. Dean obliged, exchanging the favour and asking Cas about his day, even though it was mostly the same thing. Therapy, doctor appointments, med checks, meals … he was one of the few who didn’t have to do group therapy, which was probably a good thing as from what Meg told him, he didn’t seem the type to even participate in something like that. Hell, after what she’d said, he was surprised the man even talked to him at all. But, he did, and so he continued to let him. Truth be told, he enjoyed it, and he started to open himself up more to the man, hoping that soon Cas would feel the same and open up more, too. For now, he was as closed off as ever, but Dean wasn’t about to give up.

 

He’d never given up before, he sure as shit wasn’t going to start now.

 

Sure enough, as he rounded the now familiar hallway, Cas was standing there, waiting. And, just like he did every time, he smiled when he saw Dean approaching, like this was the highlight of his day. Hell, maybe it was. It did seem pretty boring around here, maybe the little change in routine was what Cas needed. “Hello, Dean,” he said as he approached, his voice just as deep and gravelly as it had been that first time they’d met.

 

“Hey, Cas,” he replied. “How are you tonight?”

 

“Doing well.” The man paused, and Dean waited, knowing that he was processing what he wanted to say next. Conversation was still awkward for him, but Dean was patient with him. After the moment’s pause, Cas looked up and asked, “Dean, why are you here?”

 

“Uh, you mean, why do I work here?” Cas nodded, and so Dean continued, “Well, I needed the job. I’m supporting my brother while he goes to school, and this place pays me enough so I don’t have to have a second job.” Dean shrugged. “Seemed like a no brainer to me.”

 

Cas nodded, absorbing the information. “Your brother goes to school?”

 

“Yeah, yeah he goes to Stanford, actually.”

 

Another pause, and then, “Did you go to school, Dean?”

 

The question caught him a little off guard, but he chuckled and said, “Nah, I’m not really the school type. I just work, pay the bills, buy the groceries. Sam’s the smart one.”

 

“You seem smart to me.”

 

The declaration caught him off guard yet again, and despite himself Dean felt a small flush creep into his cheeks. “Uh, thanks, but I’m really nothing special.”

 

Cas’ gaze bore into him, like he was gazing into Dean’s very soul as he said, “You’re special to me, Dean.”

 

For just a moment, it felt like the world stood still, like time came to a halt and the only thing in existence was Dean and Cas, standing in that hallway, looking at each other like something in each of them needed the other, they just didn’t know or understand it yet. It was an intense moment, filled with a weighted pause and static electricity, and then it was over. Cas turned and opened his door, letting it click shut as he retreated into his room. That was pretty typical of Cas, not quite understanding social norms he didn’t always actually say goodbye, he would just leave whenever he was done with the conversation. Dean stayed there for just a moment longer, rooted to the spot, wondering just what the hell had happened.

 

He went through the rest of the night’s routine in a bit of a haze, just going through the practiced motions like he’d been doing for weeks already. From all outward appearances, he might have appeared to be concentrating on what he was doing, on the disinfectant he wiped down the tables with, the garbage bags he replaced, even how much detergent he put in the water to mop with. But in reality, his mind was miles away from the task at hand, unable to stop thinking of a certain patient just down the hall. It was so strange, what he’d felt, like a … like a connection of some kind.

 

He’d never really had any connection with anybody, really. Nobody except Sam, and that had been second nature for so long he never even thought about it. It just _was._ But this … this was different, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He just knew that whatever it was, it felt like it ran deep, like a river cutting through a canyon a mile wide and just as wild. Whatever it was, it felt like it tugged at something in his chest as he went to leave the ward that night, like he didn’t even want to leave, like he wanted to stay and just sit outside Cas’ room until the man woke up, and then maybe make him some breakfast and try to prompt more conversation out of him. Just sit with him and let him talk, about anything and everything the man wanted to. Or just sit in silence, let him gaze out the window. Maybe take him on a walk. The hospital did have a garden, maybe he would like that. All of a sudden, that was all he wanted, to steal him away, down the elevator and into gardens where there was colour and light and beauty. He wanted to see his face as he took it all in, wanted to see him smile as he relaxed.

 

And more than anything, he wanted to Cas to touch him again. He hadn’t laid a finger on him since the night he met, when he’d clung to his arm while Dean walked him to the nurse’s station, but now more than ever he wanted to feel those soft fingertips against his skin, his firm grip on his arm. He wanted to feel the expanse of those shoulders as Cas pulled him close, the man’s breath on his neck, the rumble of his gravelly voice against his chest as he spoke. God, more than anything he wanted that.

 

On his lonely ride home that early morning, the car was as silent as the roads he drove over. Normally he’d be blasting some rock in order to help keep himself awake on the drive home, but not this time. This time, he was far too entranced in his thoughts to even think about distracting himself like that. It was probably a good thing there was hardly any traffic out, because Dean honestly barely remembered the trip home, like the whole time he was just hypnotized and he only came out of it when he parked the car and turned it off. He let out a breath and rested his forehead on the steering wheel, trying to shake himself out of this. Cas was a patient, and while he wasn’t a doctor or nurse, he was pretty sure he probably should be thinking about … well, whatever he was thinking about. He couldn’t jeopardize his job, Sammy depended on him too much, and he couldn’t lose this gig no matter what. It put them in too good of a position to lose, with Dean not needing to hold down two or three jobs just to make ends meet. Not that he wouldn’t do that if he needed to, but if he only needed one job, he’d much rather stick with that, especially since it was pretty easy.

 

It just apparently came with a few complications. Well, one really. Namely a certain raven-haired patient that Dean just couldn’t seem to get out of his mind as he entered the studio apartment that night, doing his best to tiptoe through the kitchen so he wouldn’t wake his brother. Once he was in the safety of the bathroom, he let out the breath he’d been holding and leaned over on the sink, letting his weight rest in the palms of his hands for a moment before he lifted his head to look in the mirror. There was a crack in it, going from the top left side to the bottom right. It had been that way when they moved in - and Dean had made sure to make note of it, so they wouldn’t get scalped on their deposit - but the landlord had made no moves thus far to fix it. Neither of the brothers particularly cared, it just made shaving a little interesting with the way they had to move to compensate for the way the crack split their image. Right now, though, that crack seemed almost perfect the way it split Dean’s face. He felt the same way inside, his wants warring with his sense of duty, even though he didn’t even truly know what exactly it was that he wanted. All he really knew at this point was that he suddenly felt like he was missing a part of himself.

 

And he had a good goddamn idea where that part was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, so very sorry for the long delay in getting this chapter out. I needed to be in the right headspace to write this, and it took longer to get into it than I thought. It's a lot longer than I'd planned, though, so I hope it was worth the wait. :)

Darkness. That was all that Castiel had known for so long. After his parents had died and he’d been given to the cult leaders, a lot of his punishments had involved or at least ended in him being locked in a dark room. He had been told it was for his own good, to allow him reflection with no distractions. The only thing it had ended up doing was turning him inward, making him little more than a mute vessel, taking punishment and abuse in an endless cycle. That’s all life was for Castiel for so long, beating, verbal berating, then imprisonment in a dark room to relive every moment. It was hell. Worse than hell. Many times Castiel had begged for death to take him, but it hadn’t heard his pleas. It was merely him. Alone. With himself. An oft dangerous thing.

 

He had tried to bend, to submit to their will in an attempt to lessen the torture, but it never seemed to work. They never believed he was sincere, even when he was, and so he gave up. He’d grown tired of trying to convince himself that he was worthy of being saved, and so he’d take the abuse, simply waiting until death took him, whenever it decided to do so. Life for him was just one long wait; waiting until he was given a meager meal, waiting until the next round of punishment disguised as lessons, waiting until he was locked in that room again. Waiting until death, until oblivion, where Castiel fervently hoped that he would finally find peace. Peace from both his abusers and his mind, which had been warped and twisted until it was as dark as the room he was continually locked in.

 

Right now, there was no peace for Castiel. Even when he was left alone to sit in solitude, his mind tortured him, recalling his abusers and their words, their hands on him. It convinced Castiel that he deserved this, somehow, that something was just fundamentally wrong with him. He was the problem, and the others were simply trying to help him. Hell, he should be _grateful_ that there were people who cared about him enough to do this for him, to help purify his soul, to make him _worthy_. Worthy of love, worthy of care, worthy of being treated like a fucking human being … it didn’t really matter, Castiel just wanted to feel like he was worth _something_ in this goddamn world, because he sure didn’t feel like he was. All he felt like was a useless orphan, a burden on others, a blemish to his community. All he deserved was to be locked away, abused and otherwise abandoned.

 

The day he’d been discovered and taken was … an interesting twist in the tale of his life. He still remembered clearly the handle to his door being jiggled around before the door itself was kicked open. That had never happened before, and he’d jumped and winced, closing his eyes against the bright lights on the other side. Even when he was brought out of the room, the lights were normally dimmed to a low level, and his eyes had eventually adjusted over time. Having them at full blast hurt. It was hard to keep them open long at all as the FBI agents had tried to talk to him. He’d been too afraid to answer them, afraid that he would get in trouble for talking to people obviously outside of the community. He’d dreaded the punishment that he thought was in store for him, but it had never come. Instead, after a few tense, uncertain hours, he was shuffled off into a waiting ambulance and taken to the hospital. To this hospital. Stanford.

 

Some might have thought that this would have been a relief to him, but nothing could be further from the truth. While it wasn’t an idyllic life, it was all he’d ever known, and to be put in a hospital threw him into a tailspin of confusion and depression. While his life up to that point had been painful, it was predictable. Castiel found that he didn’t like change very much, and he figured that out when he passed out after hyperventilating into a panic attack during intake. After that they put him on a steady regiment of anti-anxiety medicine, with occasional rotation of different anti-psychotics and some SSRIs. They’d also attempted a variety of therapy, from group to individual, but he’d always clammed up. He wasn’t really mute, but he’d found it hard to speak, difficult to articulate responses to the questions and conversations around him. After years of isolation he just didn’t feel comfortable with speaking to others. Various doctors had come and gone, trying to fix him before giving up and shuffling him around again. Even Bela and most of the other nurses ignored him. Meg was the only one who consistently showed him any sort of kindness, and over time he grew to trust her. Still, the doctors put him on edge and made him wary, unwilling to give over his trust so easily. For years it went on like this, a new routine, an endless repetition of meds and an ever-changing gallery of doctors. It was still hell, but it was a somewhat improved version of hell. He learned to live with it, even though his memories still haunted him, his mind still pushing and prodding in painful ways, reminding him of why he was like this and what had gotten him to this point.

 

Then, two significant people came into his life: Dr. Shurley and Dean.

 

Dr. Shurley was the first, though he asked that he simply be called Chuck. He said he preferred to get on a personal level with patients and having them refer to him by a title didn’t put them on the more even ground that he liked. At first, Castiel thought he would be like all the others, drawn in only by a morbid fascination and leaving once they figured out he wasn’t so easy to crack. Why should he be any different? But, Chuck was persistent, and even if Castiel didn’t talk during therapy, Chuck would. Not at him or about him but _to_ him. Even without reciprocation, he put forth effort, and it made Castiel curious. It made him wonder so much that one day he finally asked, “Why?”

 

Chuck looked surprised that he actually spoke, but he wasn’t about to squander the opportunity now that it had finally presented itself. “Why what?”

 

“Why are you still doing this? The other doctors … they would have given up by now. They always do.”

 

“Well I won’t. I promise you that, I won’t give up on you.”

 

“But why?”

 

Chuck straightened his glasses as he replied. “Because I don’t think you’re a lost cause. I think you got handed a raw deal in life to begin with and I don’t think that should follow you forever. I want you to get better, because that’s what you deserve. You’re worthy of being well.”

 

“You think I’m … worthy?”

 

“Oh yes, very much so.”

 

This gave Castiel pause to think. Never before had he been told that he was _worthy_ of _anything_ … except perhaps the beatings he took. It was never anything good. But to hear it from a doctor, that he deserved good health? A complete, whole mind? It could be forgiven if Castiel did not immediately believe him.

 

But, just as Chuck promised, he was persistent, talking with him at every session, and slowly Castiel started responding. Chuck didn’t think Cas’ current medicine regiment was really benefitting him like it could, so he started changing it up, trying to optimize it so he would get the most benefit. It took some coaxing from Chuck to try it out, as Castiel was very resistent to change. Chuck could have changed it at any time, of course, but he wanted the man to trust him and to reach out and put forth a little effort himself. Maybe agreeing to a med change wasn’t such a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but for Cas it was. Routine was all he knew, was all that he could draw any sort of comfort from, but deep down, the man had started to hope. He really did want to get better. So he took a chance and agreed to the change.

 

Of course, the brain is an incredibly intricate thing, and trying to account for individual brain chemistry and what will work and what won’t have any affect and what will make things worse is little more than guesswork. Educated guesswork, but ultimately still guesswork. And despite best intentions, sometimes it went awry and things got worse. Chuck wasn’t god, after all, he couldn’t foresee the outcome of certain medications. The first change actually seemed to make little difference at all, which prompted the second change. That was the one where things went south. At first, things seemed pretty similar, but that devolved. Suddenly it was hard to focus and yet hard to stop thinking and for Castiel when he couldn’t stop thinking he would turn inward and reflect, and there wasn’t much good there for him to reflect on. He would get intense flashbacks and everything started coming back to him, haunting him, pushing him back into that dark place in his mind.

 

For once, though, Cas _didn’t_ want to go back there. Before, he would have just accepted it and wallowed in the darkness, but this time he didn’t want to do that. He wanted to _fight_. But fighting a battle against your mind is easier said than done, and despite his will to _not_ give in, he ended up spiraling one night anyway.

 

Castiel couldn’t remember getting out of bed, the only thing he coherently remembered was sitting on the cold, hard floor, crying as he desperately tried to push away the dark memories that were closing in on him. It was getting harder and harder to fight it, as much as he wanted to, and reality was starting to blur to the point where he couldn’t remember what was real and what wasn’t, what was recent and what was in the past.

 

It was then that the second significant person came into his life.

 

Dean may have just been a janitor, but he had taken pity on Castiel when the man was at a very low point, and he did whatever he could to help. Maybe to some people it didn’t seem like much, but hearing his soft, husky voice sing helped tremendously. Like an anchor it helped to draw him out of the darkness, give him a reference point for reality. The song he sang wasn’t like the songs he’d been forced to sing or hear by his abusers. Instead of stiff and unemotional it was warm and hopeful. It was exactly what Cas needed.

 

Castiel never forgot the kindness that the janitor afforded him. It was somewhat embarrassing for him, once he finally got a hold of his senses, but that spark of a connection drove him to seek Dean out whenever he worked. They never talked for long, as Castiel still had some social difficulties with actually holding conversations, but he was eternally grateful for every interaction they had. Despite Castiel’s awkwardness, Dean greeted him with a smile every time and talked with him as long as he wanted. He treated him like a normal, regular human being, something that Castiel had so rarely had in his life.

 

So when Dean had insisted that he was nobody special, Castiel almost felt offended on his behalf. To Castiel, Dean was incredibly important. Along with Chuck, he was helping Cas come a little bit more out of his shell every day. Even though their backgrounds were different, Castiel knew … he knew that Dean struggled with issues regarding self-worth as well. They were two peas in a pod. Perfect for each other.

 

When Castiel declared Dean was special to him before retreating into his room, Cas made up his mind. He _had_ to get better. Not just for himself, but because he wanted to help Dean see his own worth as well. Cas had a mission now. And he was going to do his damnedest to see it through.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I've been horrible at updating, and I'm sorry. I had two wip fics that were close to being finished, and I managed to finish them both up this month, just in time for Camp Nano. Since I might not get a chance to update while that's running, here's an update for you. It's just a little one, but I hope you enjoy. :)

As the weeks passed and a steady rhythm established itself, Dean found himself actually enjoying his job. Work had always just been something he did, it wasn’t something he particularly loved to do but it was necessary to survival so he always buckled down and gave it his best effort. And, sure this was just a janitorial position cleaning toilets and mopping and cleaning tables and taking out trash, but he couldn’t deny that he liked it. Maybe it was the peace of the late shift that he’d finally grown used to, or maybe it was just the simplistic duties that he could breeze through after years of hard labour. Dean had a feeling, though, that the real reason was due to a certain blue-eyed patient …

 

Castiel hadn’t given up once in greeting him during his shift yet, and it didn’t seem like he was about to anytime soon. Every time he saw Cas, the man seemed to almost relax, like his whole body sighed in relief. Dean thought it was touching that he’d somehow weaseled his way into the guy’s bedtime routine, but he thought nothing more of it. Or, more accurately, he tried not to. He would be lying if he said that Cas didn’t have a similar affect on him, with his shoulder relaxing and his smile coming more readily once he spotted him in the hallway. It felt … odd to Dean. Odd that he should feel so affected by just one person, a person he barely even knew. Besides from the run down that Meg had given him, he didn’t really know much about Castiel.

 

But he wanted to.

 

So, one evening, as he paused for their little nightly chit-chat, he asked him, “So, what exactly do you do all day? I mean, besides any therapy or anything like that … do you have any hobbies?”

 

The man cocked his head a bit and thought about it before he replied, “I like bees.”

 

“Bees, huh? You read about ‘em or watch stuff about ‘em? I’m guessing they don’t really let you keep an apiary in here.”

 

Cas chuckled. Just once, but it was a goddamn chuckle and Dean felt like he’d won the lottery as he internally fist-pumped. Then, he responded, “I draw them. Paint them.”

 

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

 

Cas nodded, then licked his lips as his eyes darted around nervously for a moment before he asked, “Do you want to see?”

 

His response was immediate. “Yeah, of course!” He hadn’t paused to think, to wonder if it would be appropriate at all, and to be honest he didn’t care. Cas wanted to show him something, and he was damn sure going to take him up on his offer.

 

His fingers slipped from the handle of his cart and he followed Cas into his room, the other man stopping on a dime and almost causing Dean to run into him. Castiel turned and fixed him with a stare. “This is my room.”

 

Dean’s jaw dropped as he looked around at what any sane person would consider an excess of bee related art. Small charcoal or pencil sketches littered his desk and his bedside table, and hung up on the wall were extensively detailed watercolour and acrylic paintings. No matter the size, no matter the tools he’d used, every single one had been drawn or painted with great care, with no detail unattended to. The closer he stepped to them, the more he saw, and the more he was amazed. Castiel was a goddamn _artist_ , and Dean felt humbled just to be near him for some reason. It was just so … unbelievable, somehow, that such a gifted, talented artist was holed away in a mental ward. A disgrace, really, though it was far from Cas’ fault. If anything, it made Dean even angrier than he’d been at the people who’d locked him away and abused him for years. They’d stifled such a brilliant mind, they’d stifled _Cas_ , and that was really all Dean needed to know about them. Fucking _monsters_ , plain and simple.

 

Castiel cleared his throat slightly as he stood behind Dean. “I know they aren’t very good …”

 

Dean swerved around with a look of disbelief on his face. “What? Seriously? No, no Cas these are … these are _beautiful_. You’re like a … a goddamn prodigy or some shit.”

 

Cas’ face lit up with a smile. “You really think so?”

 

“Yeah! I mean, granted, I’m not art major or anything like that, but talent like yours … it’s easy to see.” He glanced around at the paintings and sketches one more time before he asked, “Have you ever thought about selling some art?”

 

Cas’ eyebrows furrowed in a way Dean swore was downright _cute_. “But, these are all mine, why would I sell them?”

 

“Oh, no of course, I mean _these_ are yours, but I mean … what about other stuff? Like, if you drew or painted something for someone else … you think you’d be interested in selling something?”

 

The patient cocked his head as he thought. “I suppose I could, but why would I? Why would I make something not for me?”

 

“Well, it’s just an idea. I mean, whenever you get out of here, you’ll need a job, right? A way to make money? And, if you really enjoy doing this, you should do it professionally.” He paused, hoping he hadn’t overstepped his boundaries. “It’s just a suggestion, though.” He bit his lip before he asked, “You are gonna get out of here, right?”

 

Castiel fixed him with an intense stare that seemed to take Dean’s breath away as he replied, his voice low, “Of course I am.”

 

Dean grinned and nodded. “Atta man.” He then internally cringed as he heard a voice he really didn’t wanna hear calling for him down the hall. Groaning, he breathed, “Fuckin’ Bela. Can’t she wait a few goddamn minutes?” He smiled brightly at Cas. “Sorry, I gotta run. Miss Priss needs her garbage can emptied.”

 

Cas nodded, understanding, stepping aside so Dean could scoot through the door and grab his cart before he set off for the nurse’s station. Even the prospect of dealing with Bela couldn’t bring him down, though. The personal glimpse he’d been granted into Castiel’s world filled him with a joy that left him light in his step and with a smile on his face. The guy seemed to be opening up more and more, and that made Dean happy, even if he wasn’t quite sure why. He’d always been a compassionate kind of guy, most times, but this just seemed … different. He tried not to think about that too much, just finished up his job, drove all the way home, took a quick shower, and then slipped into bed, that smile still on his face.


	6. Chapter 6

With a determined tuck of his tongue, Castiel diligently mixed his paints, squeezing in some white or other colours to give him the needed depth that he was looking for. He was looking for a very, _very_ specific colour, something that one couldn’t just find in a regular ol’ tube of paint, and whenever an obstacle like that came up, there was only one solution: mix his own. It was something he definitely wasn’t averse to doing, not when he had a specific vision in mind. It was better to go ahead and take the time to mix find the right combination in mixing than go ahead with a standard colour and be disappointed that the outcome wasn’t the same image that was in his mind’s eye. When he couldn’t bring a specific vision to life, it was very frustrating, to say the least. It occasionally provoked a stand off between him and the nurse that ran the art room, since she’d want to close up shop and he’d want to stay and continue to work. Fortunately, since Dr. Shurley had started him on some new medication, his outbursts had been less and less until they were almost nonexistent. It was now eight weeks into the medication trial, and it seemed to be working in full force now, and working for the better.

 

Dr. Shurley had also recommended more time in the art room, as much as possible while it was open, because he saw great value in him creatively expressing himself. He posited that the more he expressed himself in any way he felt comfortable the more he would express himself in other ways later. Castiel couldn’t speak to the science behind it, but he did feel a lot more calm while he was drawing or painting so he was happy to go along with it and during the day, if it wasn’t mealtime or a schedule session with Dr. Shurley, he was in the art room.

 

Another thing Castiel was enjoying and adjusting to having every day was talking with Dean. He always waited for him outside of his room and without fail the man showed up and stopped and chatted with him. It was probably one of his favourite parts of the day, seeing his face and watching his lips curl upward in a warm grin as soon as he caught sight of Castiel, then hearing his deep, husky voice say his name … whenever Dean said Castiel’s name, it was like he wrapped the man in a warm blanket and held him tight. It just wonderful and _right_ and Castiel couldn’t get enough of it. It was like a light feeling balled up in his chest and made him feel like he was floating. Even though he knew their time was brief every night, he never wanted it to end. He did his best to extend that time as much as he could, and that was why he showed Dean his room.

 

His room was something that was intensely personal to Cas, as he rarely ever allowed anyone in there. Meg was the only nurse he truly trusted to not mess with his things. He was very particular with how his room was arranged, how his drawings were displayed, how his furniture was set up. Bela had kept messing with him, moving things and making it difficult for him because she just didn’t care, and Meg had smoothed it over as best as she could. Since the medication change, however, Bela didn’t find it as entertaining to mess with him anymore, so she’d backed off and just played games on her phone during her shift. Castiel was always thankful that she was only a part-time nurse and not full-time, because he always hated her shift. Because she left him alone more, now, he had started to feel more comfortable, more at ease, and as best he could figure, that was why he had invited Dean inside. It would not only extend their time together, but it would give Castiel a chance to show the man a little more about himself. He wasn’t sure exactly why, but he felt it was important to share as much as himself as he could with Dean. And at the same time, he wanted the same in return. So he asked about Sam, he asked about Dean’s day, he asked about anything he could think of because he just wanted Dean to _talk to him_. And he did. And it was wonderful.

 

But Castiel wanted more. He craved more. And while there were some things he still had difficulties with, he was determined to overcome them because he didn’t want anything coming between him and Dean. The man needed him, Castiel could sense. There was just something about Dean that screamed it. Something about the way he walked, about the way he hung his head, the way he worked … he was a hard worker, of course, and that was nothing to fault, but it was like the work was the only real thing besides Sam that Dean ever took pride in. He didn’t take pride in his height, because his shoulders were almost constantly slightly stooped. He didn’t take pride in his figure, as he was always wearing the baggiest version of scrubs he could instead of scrubs that actually fit him. He didn’t even take pride in the hands that performed the work he was so proud of because he was constantly either tucking them into his cart or shoving them in his pockets. And it killed Castiel to see that. Dean was wonderful, he was magnificent, and he wanted to show him that.

 

That was why, when Dean had went slack-jawed at all of the paintings and drawings in his room, so much so that he’d subconsciously stood a little straighter and taken his hands out of his pockets, Castiel knew what he had to do.

 

And that was why he worked so diligently to mix up just the right colour, specifically the right colour of green, because Dean’s eyes were special and there was no way that any paint company had bottled it. They were green like an ancient forest, like a moss-covered cabin, like a shiny green apple. And if Castiel couldn’t find just the right colour to paint Dean’s eyes with, then this whole endeavor was all for naught.

 

It took some time - probably in the area of three hours - but Castiel finally found it, just the right colour to use in his painting. Once he’d captured just the right mixture, he went to work, paying special attention to one of his favourites of Dean’s features. He was an attractive man, of course, and there were many fine physical qualities about him. But Castiel’s favourite had to be the man’s eyes. It was his eyes that was the first thing that Castiel had really seen of him, his eyes full of concern and care offered to a complete stranger. That kindness had been what had pulled Castiel to him, attracted him to the janitor, and as a result it was his eyes that was the most important to Castiel, the feature he always paid special attention to. He did his best to maintain as much eye contact with him as possible, just so he could drink in that gaze. While Castiel had many issues to work through, many things to come to terms with, whenever he was treated to that gaze he felt that somehow, someway, everything would be all right.

 

Painting Dean’s portrait took the better part of a week, with Castiel spending all day aside from mealtimes in the art room. He was meticulous and wanted to accurately capture every single feature of Dean, from the shine in his light brown hair to the freckles that danced across his nose to the curve of his lips, everything had to be just right. And if anyone was going to do the job, it was Castiel.

 

Finally, late one afternoon, Castiel set his brush aside and smiled. It was done, finished. And it was probably the most beautiful thing Castiel had ever painted. He couldn’t wait to show it to Dean, and while it seemed like torture waiting for all of the paint to fully dry, the day it was ready he marched it back to his room wide a smile of pride on his face. He considered this his masterpiece, and because of that he had to display it prominently in his room. It took a while of hemming and hawing and where he should put it, what drawings he should move in order to accommodate it, but in the end he decided to prop it up on his desk. He moved his bee portrait to the floor and rearranged his other paper drawings around it so that they framed the picture but not so much that they distracted from it. In the end, it was like it was perfectly integrated in the room, like it had always been there. Like it was meant to be there. Castiel smiled gently to see it there, displayed with the pride that he wished he could see in Dean for himself. He hoped this would help show Dean that the man meant something, that he was worth something. Because he was worth everything to Castiel.

 

That night, as he waited for Dean to arrive, he couldn’t help the nervous energy that made him antsy and fidgety. Not in a bad way, though, for once not in a bad way. He was just excited to show Dean his handiwork, to see his reaction.

 

And with the slight squeak of the housekeeping cart, Castiel’s smile grew even wider. Dean was just around the corner, and for once he was _excited_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, but I'm saving Dean's reaction for the next chapter. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Two chapters in two days? What is this sorcery?

Dean stretched as he picked up his cart for the night, relaxing the muscles that had tightened up during the drive in. He was completely settled in the groove now. He was getting a full night’s worth of rest whenever he got home, he was always able to make a nice meal for Sammy once he got home from classes, work always went by like a breeze. He felt like he was on top of the world. Or, at least, as much as he thought he could be. Deep down, he still wished he could do more for Sam, provide him with more, help him with his homework, anything the kid needed. He’d played tutor throughout grade school and did his best in high school, but college was simply out of his league. Since he was hopelessly unable to assist him in his academics, he felt that his job fell now to providing for him financially, giving him a place to stay, putting food on the table, making sure the apartment was clean and organized so Sam would have a good study environment once he got home. But, lately, he’d begun to feel a little guilty. Not that their studio apartment wasn’t nice, as aside from a few cosmetic things it fit the bill of being “warm” and “dry” with enough space for them. Regardless, Dean felt that Sammy deserved _more_. A bigger, nicer apartment so they weren’t crammed into a single room, more food as he swore that boy was _still_ growing, even nicer clothes because even though college was a wholly different world from high school, he didn’t want his brother feeling ashamed for wearing obviously old, thrift shop clothing. Not that Sammy had said anything about it, but it was just something that was always on Dean’s mind, that he wanted to provide for his brother. Give him things that, sure maybe he didn’t _need_ but he certainly probably _wanted_. Nicer clothes, a bigger apartment, a cell phone that wasn’t a clunker, a gaming system to help him relax and unwind after a stressful day of studying. No matter what Dean _could_ get him, he always felt like he still let him down, like he should have gotten him _more_.

 

Guilt is a helluva motherfucker.

 

If he was truly honest with himself - and he rarely was - he wasn’t sure why he felt the way he did, where those feelings came from. Nobody had certainly ever even _tried_ to do for him what he had done so far for Sammy, so it wasn’t like he had an example he was looking up to or a standard to meet. It’s just the way he thought it should be. It wasn’t Sammy’s fault their mother had died, not his fault their father had turned into a reclusive drunk. It wasn’t Dean’s fault, either, of course, but his line of thinking never really got that far. He was the older brother, he just had to do this. He had to do it _better_ than he was already even doing it.

 

That was why, when he woke up in the morning, he scoured the personal ads for part-time jobs while he had his coffee. While the paychecks from Stanford were wonderful, and were definitely keeping them afloat, he still felt they weren’t quite enough. Even if he just got something for his days off, he felt that would help. He just wanted better for Sam, even better than he could give him. For Dean … well, he didn’t matter that much. He had clothes on his back and food in his stomach and a place to sleep, so that was all he really needed. But Sam … he _deserved_ more. And Dean was gonna try his damnedest to give it to him.

 

The first part of the night went by flawlessly. He cleaned in peace and quiet, and truth be told there thankfully wasn’t a disaster waiting for him in the bathrooms. Most of the time it was fine, but sometimes … sometimes he had to wonder just how shit - not figurative, _literal_ shit - got on the _ceiling_. It wasn’t for him to figure out, just for him to clean, but still, one just couldn’t help but wonder and perhaps even marvel at the seeming contradiction of physics.

 

He cracked his neck a little as he put his cleaning supplies back in his cart, wheeling it away from his last bathroom stop so he could run by Cas’ room before cleaning the common area and the nurse’s station. He had to admit, it was quite the enjoyable detour. He couldn’t really explain why, per se, but every time he rounded that corner and saw Cas standing there … and then saw _that smile_ cross the man’s face as he lit up upon seeing Dean … it put a certain ache in his chest, an ache that he didn’t really think about most of the time because he was afraid. Afraid because poor Cas still had so many issues to work through, still had such a long way to go despite all the good progress he’d made. Afraid because he was slowly feeling like he just couldn’t get by every night without seeing him and he didn’t know what it would mean if Cas ever skipped a day but he had a feeling he didn’t want to find out. Afraid because what he was feeling was bone-deep - no, _soul_ -deep - and if he ever had to leave this job or take less hours he wasn’t sure how he would cope. He wasn’t sure how _Cas_ would cope. And he worried. He worried so damn much that Cas would never get better, that he’d never get to leave the hospital and make a life for his own, that he’d never get to be with …

 

All thoughts were banished from Dean’s head as he finally rounded that corner, and as he saw Cas standing there, as per usual, he swore the man seemed like he was made of _light_. All-encompassing, glorious, vibrant light. It just seemed to surround him and permeate the area around him, and Dean couldn’t help the way his lips curved upwards in a smile or the way his shoulders sagged slightly as if in relief. As he drew near, he called out his usual greeting, “Heya, Cas.” Biting his lip ever so slightly, he added, “You seem pretty happy tonight.”

 

The man nodded, fidgeting with his hands in his robe as he stood there. He licked his lips before he said, “I have something I want to show you.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes. Can you follow me?”

 

There was no hesitation in Dean’s answer. Cas could have asked him to help storm the gates of hell and Dean would have been beside him the whole way. “Sure.” He let his hands fall from the cart as he followed Cas into his room. The man hurried inside and Dean had to wonder just what was up. Cas then turned around to face him and grinned widely, gesturing off to Dean’s left, and as Dean followed the direction, he froze.

 

Sitting on the desk, amongst various small bee drawings, was a painted portrait. But not just any portrait, a portrait of _him_. Dean felt like all breath had left him as he stepped forward, his hands falling out of his pockets as he approached the desk. He didn’t know how Cas had done it, but the way he’d captured Dean was … incredible. The portrait was painted from the neck up, so it was focused on his face, and no detail had gone unnoticed. The ever so slight crook of his nose as a result of a fight in high school, the freckles that danced across his face, even his _eyes_ stood out and commanded attention. The colours that surrounded him made it look like he was standing in a halo of light, like he was some old-fashioned saint. The way the perspective was done, with Dean looking over his shoulder, even the slope of his shoulder looked majestic and he didn’t know how the hell Cas had captured it like that. If he’d thought the man was talented before, he no longer had words to describe what Cas was. It was unreal.

 

He turned back toward Cas and asked, “You painted me?”

 

The patient nodded. “This is how I see you.”

 

Dean turned back toward the portrait, taking it all in, and for some inexplicable reason he felt tears prick the corner of his eyes. “Cas it’s … this is beautiful.”

 

“Thank you. It’s my best work. That’s why I want you to have it.”

 

Dean whirled around to see Cas just standing there, a soft grin on his face, his eyes practically beaming. “You want me to _have it_?”

 

“Yes.”

 

All of a sudden, Dean had a lump in his throat and he swallowed hard to get rid of it before it prompted the tears gathering in his eyes to fall and _holy shit why was he about to cry_? This one gesture, as small as it looked from the outside, was deep and profound and had an undeniable affect on Dean. He shook his head. “Cas, I can’t take this.”

 

A small frown appeared on Cas’ face, and immediately Dean felt like a dagger had ripped through his heart. “Why?”

 

“Because this is … it’s … it’s too beautiful, it’s too good. You should keep it.”

 

“But Dean,” Cas said as he approached him, “I painted it for you.”

 

A soft, warm sensation enveloped one of his hands and he looked down to see that it was Cas, intertwining his fingers with Dean’s. He swallowed hard again, blinking furiously against the tide of tears that was threatening to fall as he managed to say, his voice deep and hoarse and just barely cracking, “You painted this _for_ me? Why?”

 

“Because I think you need it.”

 

Dean had nothing to say to that as he looked from the painting to the floor and just about anywhere but Cas. He couldn’t look at him, not at the moment, because if he did he was afraid he would just burst into sobs and he wasn’t even sure why. When the initial wave passed, he finally got up the courage to look the man in the eye and in those deep pools of blue he saw an unwavering sense of faith. Dean wasn’t really sure why Cas thought he deserved it, but the fact that it was there humbled him. Dean licked his lips and asked, “You mind if I come back for it after I’m done? It’ll be late, but I don’t want it to get ruined on my cart.”

 

Cas nodded. “I’ll be awake.”

 

Nothing more was said as Dean left the room, grabbing his cart and making his way to the common area. He wiped at his eyes several times as a preemptive measure, just to make ensure nothing fell, though he was pretty sure his eyes were rimmed red anyway. If they were, the nurse on duty made no note of it as she did paperwork behind the desk. Dean could never remember this particular nurse’s name, but she was polite enough and left Dean alone so she was okay in Dean’s book. He was glad beyond measure that it wasn’t Bela there. Or Meg. He knew Meg would have noticed and she’d ask why it looked like he’d been crying and as much as he’d resist telling her she would needle it out of him anyway. She’d become like a sister to him, talking and teasing him in equal measure, and he knew she wouldn’t have passed up the chance to say something. So, thank heaven for small miracles.

 

Once he was finished, he made his way back to Cas’ room, wondering if he should knock or just walk on in. He ended up not having to decide as it seemed Cas was waiting on him and opened the door as he drew near, that soft smile on his face that seemed to make Dean want to melt. Dean scratched the back of his neck as he asked him, “You sure you want me to take it with me?”

 

Cas nodded. “I’m sure. I wouldn’t have painted it for you if I didn’t want you to have it.”

 

The man handed him the painting and Dean took it with both hands, looking it over as a wave of emotion overcame him. “It’s just … it’s too beautiful, Cas …”

 

What happened next was so quick, it was almost a blur, but Dean knew he would remember it for the rest of his life. Cas’ hands came up and rested on either side of his face and all of a sudden he was smashing his lips against Dean’s. It was quick and chaste and lasted all of a few moments, but when Cas drew back he kept his face close and looked Dean directly in the eyes as he whispered, “I know.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters in three days?? Okay, who sold their soul for this?

Dean quietly crept back into their apartment, hardly daring to breathe in order to not wake up his brother. He really shouldn’t have worried so much; Sam was the heavy sleeper of the two, Dean had alwaysslept lighter. Probably just ingrained because he’d had to listen out for Sammy after their mother had died. Whoever said three year olds should be sleeping through the night were goddamn liars, and Dean was liable to punch anyone in the face who said so. But, what was done was done, no use musing over something he couldn’t change.

 

He carefully set the painting down and leaned it against the head of his bed. He wasn’t sure where he would hang it - or even how, considering he had no nails or hammer - but he figured he’d worry about that later. It still felt somewhat sacrilegious to take something, like he was stealing some sacred artifact, even though it was just a portrait of himself. It was so much more than just a portrait, though, and Dean knew that, though he didn’t want to think about it. The things that he’d felt looking at it, looking at Cas’ face as he showed it to him …

 

He shook his head to rid himself of that line of thinking as he made his way to the bathroom and closed himself inside before flipping on the light. Quickly and quietly he shucked his clothes and shoes and started up the water for a nice, steaming hot shower. He had to fiddle with the faucet a little bit to get the temperature just right - if he wasn’t careful he’d either freeze or melt his skin off - but he hit the sweet spot and then stepped inside, letting the water envelop him as he just stood there for a moment, drinking it in. The steam was already starting to build and while Dean was exhausted and ready to lie down, he allowed himself this moment of relaxation as he stood there under the warm stream, reveling in the feel of the hot water against his skin. There was just something about a shower that cleansed the mind’s palate, so to speak, and Dean got so few opportunities to truly relax he had to take them and enjoy them while he could. And, if Dean’s plan worked out with him getting a second job to work on his days off, he’d have a whole lot less of that relaxation time. But, a few minutes standing under the shower wouldn’t go amiss either way, and it was the one thing he figured he was due.

 

As he lathered up the soap and began to wash the chemical-y smell from his body, his mind, of course, wandered unbidden to the previous events of the night.. The happiness that had radiated off of Cas, the absolute _lovely_ way he smiled, the sincerity of his earnest expression. Dean swore his skin still tingled from where Cas had woven their fingers together … and, of course, where his full, slightly chapped lips had pressed so urgently against his. Dean’s hand subconsciously brushed against his own lips, the recent memory strong and powerful. It had been completely unexpected and yet it felt like it had completed the moment perfectly. The little touches he had been granted from the man stayed with him, from the first night they met when he’d grasped his arm tightly to the very moment they’d shared a kiss. Their physical contact had been few and far between, but despite that it had been meaningful and deep. And, if he was being honest - which Dean rarely was when it came to feelings - he craved more. He wanted to tuck the man into his chest as they laid down for bed, nuzzling gently as they both fell asleep. Take his hand as they walked through a park. Wrap an arm around his shoulders as they sat close to enjoy a movie together. Gently play with the other’s hand as they ate a meal. Kiss again, this time passionately and long until it felt like they were baring each other’s soul to the other. He didn’t even care if they didn’t fuck, he just wanted to _touch him_.

 

There was no denying it. He was addicted to Cas.

 

Addicted to the way the man beamed at him, addicted to his low, gravelly voice, addicted to his soft skin as it brushed against his own. Addicted to the way he gazed at Dean, like he was truly in awe of him, addicted to the way his hair was seemingly always rumpled _just so_. Addicted to the way his lips fit perfectly over Dean’s …

 

Dean finished his shower quickly and hopped out of the shower, hoping that the thoughts would be left there in the tub as he dressed in a pair of boxers and shut off the light before he exited the bathroom and crawled into bed. But while the visual memories had ceased, he couldn’t shake the cacophony of feelings that had washed over him during the events of the night. Despite his exhaustion, he tossed and turned for a couple of hours yet, snatching some dozing sleep where he could while everything that he was feeling made his chest seem like it was going to burst. Now, of course, he felt empty. Hollow. Like there was a chunk of himself missing and he couldn’t get it back. He wanted it back, though, oh how he desperately wanted it back. He wanted to tuck it right into the bed next to him and wrap his arms around it and never let it go. In his mind’s eye, while he was sleeping, he was doing just that … holding Cas as they both slept. When he eventually dropped off to sleep, it was with that image firmly planted in his brain, so strong that even the pillow that he clutched felt warm and like it was breathing.

 

He woke up a little groggy the next day, blinking slowly as he let reality gently return. He’d slept so deep for once he couldn’t even remember stirring when Sam left for class that morning. Despite how quiet his brother tried to be in the morning, Dean was usually too light a sleeper to not be woken up. It was usually a quick awakening, though, just an acknowledgement that Sam was getting ready and then he’d go back to sleep. But that morning? He honestly couldn’t remember if he’d woken up or not. Strange. But he’d slept well, so he wasn’t about to question it. Plus, Sam’s bed was empty so he knew his brother had left. Whether he’d woken up or not, the important things had happened, so he let his body and mind slide for the time being as he swung his legs off the side of the futon as he rubbed his face before he stretched and flexed his back. He’d let Sam have the actual bed while he took a futon, the only thing they had been able to afford at the time, and while he wouldn’t begrudge his brother his good night’s sleep - he was the one going to school, after all - he couldn’t deny the thin futon mattress meant he woke up stiff. He cleared his throat as he finally stood and made his way to the little kitchen so he could fix himself a pot of coffee, pouring out the remnants that Sam had left on his way out the door earlier.

 

With a steaming, fresh cup in hand, Dean sat at the kitchen table, enjoying his first sips before he grabbed the nearby newspaper to look over for potential secondary jobs. He still felt it important to bring in more money, though he wasn’t really finding any good leads so far. Still, he persisted, and by the time he’d drained his first cup of coffee, he’d found at least one potential and called the number associated with the ad to get more information. In talking to the person on the other line, it didn’t sound like a bust off top, so he scheduled a time to go in the next day - one of his days off - and fill out an application and do an initial interview. Fingers crossed he might happen upon a little luck and nab the job, as it would supplement their income well.

 

As he finished a second cup of coffee, Sam unexpectedly returned, walking through the door and tossing his worn backpack to the side, a faithful companion he’d had since his freshman year of high school. It was faded and falling apart, but Dean hadn’t been able to afford to get him a new bag and Sam had insisted it worked just fine anyway when Dean had apologized for it, and so the matter had been dropped. Only for the time being, however, as Dean was sure to bring it up the next chance he could and get his brother a nice, new backpack to carry his books and supplies in for his classes. “Hey, you’re home early,” Dean remarked as he sipped his coffee.

 

“Yeah. Some idiot infected the lab’s computers with a virus and IT wasn’t sure when they’d get it fixed, so they canceled lab today.”

 

“Lucky break.”

 

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, tell me about it.” The younger Winchester joined his brother at the table, stretching his arms and cracking his neck to work out the kinks from sitting in one position in class for too long. “What’s that you’re looking at?”

 

“Just some job leads.”

 

“Job leads? Did you lose the janitor one?”

 

“Nah, just a little something to supplement.”

 

Sam paused before he said, “Dean, we’re doing fine, you don’t need to get another job.”

 

“We’re making it, but I feel we could be doing better. I mean, what happens when your backpack finally gives out?”

 

His brother shrugged. “Then I use one of the plastic bags we’ve been hoarding in the kitchen cabinet.”

 

Dean blanched. There was no way in hell his brother was going to use plastic grocery bags to carry his books and supplies to and from class. It wasn’t even a pride thing anymore, it was reprehensible to Dean of the thought of having to stoop so low just to function. “Absolutely not. A second job, just part-time, will give us a little more wiggle room.”

 

“Then why don’t I get a job?”

 

“You have school, you need to focus on that.”

 

“A part-time job won’t take away from studying, Dean.”

 

The older Winchester shook his head. “No, it’s not up for discussion.”

 

Sam sighed, knowing he wasn’t about to win this argument and sat back in the chair, letting his eyes wander and eventually settling on the painting at the head of Dean’s futon bed. “Hey, I was meaning to ask you this morning, but you were dead asleep … where did you get that from?”

 

Dean followed his gaze to the painting and if his cheeks flushed a shade or two red, Sam didn’t say anything about it. “It’s, uh … well, it was a gift from one of the patients. You know, the one that talks to me every night.”

 

“Oh yeah, what’s his name … Chris?”

 

“Cas.”

 

“Right, Cas. Dunno why I didn’t remember that, it’s unique enough.” He shrugged before he added, “So he painted that for you? That’s pretty impressive. He must’ve spent a lot of time on it.”

 

“Yeah, probably. He’s really good.”

 

Sam nodded, the level of artistry speaking for itself. “Did he say why he did it? Or why he gave it to you?”

 

It was Dean’s turn to shrug as he replied, “He said he thought I needed it. That that’s how he sees me.”

 

“He thought you needed it?”

 

“I don’t know, man, that’s just what he said.”

 

“Huh,” Sam said noncommittally as his eyes swept over Cas’ handiwork. “Well, guess we’ll have to pick up some nails and a hammer this weekend.”

 

Dean nodded, finishing up his second cup of coffee as his gaze lingered a little overly long on the painting. He would try to pick up a cheap hammer and nails once he got paid - he owed Cas that much, for going to the trouble of making for him it deserved to be properly displayed - but for now it would rest at the head of his head. And if his fingers caressed the top of the canvas before he drifted to sleep, well … nobody would be any the wiser for it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FOUR CHAPTERS IN FOUR DAYS HOLY HELL WHAT IS HAPPENING.
> 
> It seems like the muses are finally slowing down on this one as well, since other stories are starting to crowd it out (even my Harry Potter one, and that one's mute, so you know how insistent she has to be to get through to me!). But, I hope you all have enjoyed this little spurt, and I hope it helps tide you over until the next update, hopefully before July's Camp NaNo.

He’d waited somewhat anxiously for Dean to visit him. Not anxious in a bad way, though, he had plenty of experience with that to know this was nothing like the panic attacks he normally had. No, this was a good kind of anxious, of looking forward to what he was anticipating. Having this nervous energy and yet not being overwhelmed was strange, and he didn’t quite know what to do with himself, but he just continued to stand there, fidgeting with his fingers inside his plain bathrobe, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waited.

 

When Dean turned the corner, he couldn’t help the huge grin that stretched across his face. Castiel honestly couldn’t remember if he’d ever smiled as big before in his life, but it felt good. It felt right. Like everything had clicked in his world and he finally started to relax. Pressing worries and other needs took a back seat, at least for the time being, as the night time janitor drew near, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Heya, Cas.” His bottom lip caught ever so slightly between his teeth as he stated, “You seem pretty happy tonight.”

 

Castiel nodded, continuing to fidget for a moment as he gathered his wits about him. He was so nervous and he felt this was so important to Dean so he didn’t want to screw it up. He took a moment to calm down and order his thoughts, licking his lips before he said, “I have something I want to show you.”

 

Dean’s eyebrows quirked. “Oh?”

 

“Yes. Can you follow me?”

 

The janitor didn’t hesitate, straightening up and shoving his hands into his pockets as he made to follow Castiel. A surge of pride flowed through him at the thought that Dean would do exactly as he asked, immediately when he asked, without putting up any kind of protest or asking any questions. It made Castiel’s heart thrum in excitement as he lead Dean into his room before he turned around to face Dean and then gestured to his right, where the desk was sitting. His heart was pounding now and his lips were suddenly dry again as he waited for Dean to notice what it was he wanted to show him.

 

At first, Dean froze, like everything in him was trying to process what he was seeing before he acted on it. His shoulders stopped drooping as he stood up a little straighter, and he took his hands out of his pockets as he walked toward the desk, his mouth gaping ever so slightly in awe. Castiel was beaming with pride as he watched the man’s reactions. Though he couldn’t see his face, Castiel could tell from his body language, from the way he relaxed, that he was definitely happy with it, a Castiel just wanted to dance around the room from excitement. This was fantastic. Dean’s reaction was playing out exactly how he’d wanted it to.

 

The janitor slowly turned back to face Castiel as he asked, “You painted me?” The look on his face was surprise, mingled with a hint of disbelief and awe.

 

Castiel nodded. “This is how I see you.” _You’re beautiful, Dean. You’re so beautiful and handsome and strong and loyal and smart and important and worthy and I just want you to see it for yourself._

 

Dean turned to look at the painting again before he said, soft and low, “Cas it’s … this is beautiful.”

 

_I know it’s beautiful, it’s beautiful because_ you _are beautiful, Dean, why can’t you see this? Please see this._ “Thank you. It’s my best work. That’s why I want you to have it.”

 

He whirled back around to face Castiel, his eyes wide in surprise. The last time he and Castiel had spoken about paintings and drawings, Dean had mentioned selling his work, but Castiel had explained he only painted for himself. This, though … this had been a special project. An exception to the rule. Dean _needed_ to see himself the way he really was, and this was the only way Castiel could think of to show him. He wasn’t very good with words, either writing or talking, but he could paint. And so that’s what he had done. Castiel stood there smiling as Dean asked in disbelief, “You want me to _have it_?”

 

“Yes.” There was no question in his mind. Though Castiel loved this painting, loved it almost as much as the man in front of him, he didn’t _need_ it. Not like Dean did. He could always sketch some pictures or do another painting if he wished, but this work he had done solely for Dean and no one else, not even himself. He _couldn’t_ keep it.

 

Dean looked like the wind had been taken out of it, like he was overwhelmed with the offer, and Castiel swore that he could see tears pooling in his eyes as he shook his head and said, “Cas, I can’t take this.”

 

Castiel frowned, tilted his head ever so slightly, unable to understand the turn of events. _No, Dean, I made this for you, you have to take it! Don’t you understand? I’m trying to show you who you really are and what you’re worth. I can’t do that if you won’t take it!_ “Why?”

 

“Because this is … it’s … it’s too beautiful, it’s too good. You should keep it.”

 

_Oh, Dean, forever denying your true worth. You can’t even take this because you don’t feel you deserve it, do you? But you do, Dean, you do. You deserve to look at this every single day and be reminded of your worth. That’s why I made it for you._ “But Dean, I painted it for you.” Castiel approached the man and hesitated, hesitated for only a moment because he felt he needed to drive this point home as much as he could, and then he reached out and intertwined his fingers with Dean’s, pulling Dean’s attention back to him. He stood there beside the man wordlessly, letting him process as he simply stood there in moral support. If there was a way to telepathically communicate what he was feeling and what he was trying to impress upon the man, Castiel was certainly trying to.

 

Dean, on the other hand, studiously looked anywhere _but_ Castiel, looking instead at the painting and the floor and an unspecified point in the distance. But the patient didn’t give up, simply biding his time as Dean processed everything. Sometimes it just took a little time, a little nudge in the right direction, someone to care enough to put you on that path. Heaven knows Castiel knew that very well, and what Dr. Shurley had done for him, he wanted to do for Dean, if only the man would let him. _Please let me, Dean._

 

Finally, after an eternity all unto itself during which Castiel’s heart might’ve stopped, Dean licked his lips and conceded. “You mind if I come back for it after I”m done? It’ll be late, but I don’t want it to get ruined on my cart.”

 

Castiel nodded, a thrill of relief running through him. “I’ll be awake.” Normally he would have gone to bed after Dean’s visit, but this was more important than getting sleep. Truth be told, he never even knew when Dean left or how long it would take him to finish working because Castiel was always asleep by then. Nevertheless, he stayed awake, sitting on the edge of his bed and listening out for him, occasionally getting up and pacing for a bit before sitting down again. He almost started dozing at a couple of points but managed to jerk himself awake, getting up to stretch and jump in place for a minute or two to wake himself up. After some time, his ears perked to hear that familiar squeak of the cleaning cart, and he grinned as he jumped up to grab the painting and then opened the door to see Dean approaching.

 

The man left the cart where it was as he sauntered over to Castiel’s door, scratching the back of his neck as he asked, “You sure you want me to take it with me?”

 

Castiel nodded, firm in his decision. _You can’t sway me from this, Dean, I was meant to do this. I was meant to do this for you._ “I’m sure. I wouldn’t have painted it for you if I didn’t want you to have it.”

 

He handed over the painting and the way that Dean’s eyes swept over it filled Castiel with pride and hope. Pride that Dean was obviously so affected by this gesture and hope that it would indeed have its desired affect. Dean swallowed as he said, his voice a little rough, “It’s just … it’s too beautiful, Cas …”

 

He wasn’t quite sure what possessed him to take the next action, but he felt desperate to relay to Dean just what he meant to Castiel, just how important he was. Before he could overthink it, Castiel gently cupped Dean’s face and pressed his lips firmly against Dean’s, holding the kiss for a three count before he pulled back and whispered, “I know.” _You’re so blind to your own worth, please let me show you. I need you to see it, Dean. I need you to_ feel _it._

 

The next day during therapy, when Chuck asked him what he had been up to, Castiel confided that he had been working on a big painting project and had finally finished it. “You did?” Chuck asked. “Well that’s great, Castiel! What was it?”

 

“A picture of Dean.”

 

“Dean? Who’s Dean?” Chuck leaned forward, a look of concern etched on his face.

 

“The night janitor, the one I talk to. I painted a picture of him and gave it to him.”

 

Chuck no longer looked concerned, but instead surprised, and said as much. “I’m surprised you gave away one of your paintings, Castiel. Was there a reason?”

 

“Because he needed it.”

 

“He needed it? Why did he need it? Did he ask you to do it for him?”

 

Castiel shook his head. Dean would never do anything like that, would never even presume to ask so much of someone like that. No, Dean would rather go without, even if it was something he truly needed, Castiel was sure of it. “No. I painted it because …” Words failed Castiel for a moment and he fell silent. He knew the reason why he had painted it, but he truly hadn’t thought of the _why_ behind it, it had just been so automatic. He had never given even a moment’s ponder to think on why he wanted to do this, on why it was so important to Castiel that Dean be shown his true worth, that he finally recognize himself for what he was … an angel. Whenever he thought of Dean, it was a strange feeling that bubbled inside of him, something deep and urgent and needy, and he didn’t quite understand it still. What he was feeling, though he was sure of it, he had trouble interpreting it.

 

Chuck allowed him a few minutes to think before he prompted him. “Castiel, why did you paint it?”

 

Instead of answering the doctor’s question directly, Castiel took a different approach, wanting to also clarify some things for himself. He had really grown to trust Dr. Shurley in the time that he’d been treating him, and he thought he could trust the good doctor to be honest with him. “I … quite honestly, I … _feel_ for him. But, not just as another person, not like you or Meg do for me. It’s … it feels like more.”

 

Chuck took his glasses off and set his pen down. “What does it feel like, Castiel?”

 

“I … do not know for sure. I cannot recall ever feeling like this before, but … if I were to guess, I would say it is _amare_.”

 

“Ah, love,” Chuck repeated in English. Castiel tended to revert to Latin when speaking about unfamiliar things, and fortunately the doctor understood and was able to pick up and understand him. It made things easier, sometimes. Castiel didn’t understanding exactly _why_ it was easier to say amare than love, but it simply was, and Chuck went along with it. “You think you love this Dean?”

 

“I know I love him. But …” he trailed off again, but only for a moment this time as he came back with, “… the elders, they … they would not approve of what I’m feeling. Not for Dean.”

 

“Because he’s a man?”

 

Castiel nodded, his face falling slightly. He couldn’t deny what was he was feeling, he didn’t even try to. But he couldn’t help but think of what the elders would say, how they would berate him and tear him down if they found this out. Oh if he had thought he had been condemned before, he would have been beaten unconscious if they ever found out Castiel was gay.

 

Chuck sighed knowingly, adjusting the notepad on his lap as he said, “I understand, Castiel. It’s hard fighting against the kind of programming you suffered through for years. So, instead of just _telling_ you they’re wrong, I pose to you this … we’ve already established what is right and good in God’s eyes, yes?” Castiel nodded, his eyes flicking up at the doctor. “And we’ve established that the actions of your elders would be seen as evil in the eyes of the Lord, correct?” Castiel nodded again, the gears clicking in his head as he followed along from point a to point b. “So, if that is true, then would it not make sense that something that the elders believed was bad could actually be good?”

 

Bingo. There it was, the confirmation that Castiel needed. His shoulders relaxed as it felt like his entire body sighed as the full realization hit him. _I_ love _Dean. And it’s okay. I can love Dean and it’s okay because I’m not going to hell for it._ A smile crept up Castiel’s face, tugging at his lips. “Thank you, Chuck.” Instead of simply offering him platitudes and talking down to him like _oh my god how can he still think this or struggle with this when is he going to learn_ … instead of doing that, he phrased it in such a way that allowed Castiel to reach the conclusion himself, which was exactly what he needed. _And,_ Castiel thought, _it’s what Dean needs._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, NaNoWriMo for providing the drive for this chapter!

Dean took a deep breath as he stared into the mirror, straightening up the one good shirt he had and checking his hair to make sure it was all smooth and neat. Normally, he wouldn’t be so attentive to his appearance on one of his days off, but he had an interview and he wanted to nail it. He might not have had a suit or anything, but he had a nice enough short-sleeved button up and a pair of slacks that weren’t too worn, and he polished up his shoes as best he could. It wasn’t picture perfect, but it would have to do, and combined with the fact that he was interviewing at a mechanic shop, he figured he wasn’t expected to show up in a three piece anyway. It wasn’t a grease monkey position, just front desk type of stuff that Dean figured would be a breeze, but he thought it a good stepping stone. While he didn’t have any formal training, if he could really get a chance at this place, show off his stuff, then maybe he could snag a full time position in the shop itself, making more than enough money. That was what he was hoping, anyway, and maybe it was a little ambitious, but he just had a feeling that he could pull it off.

 

Glancing at the clock in the other room, he flicked the light off in the bathroom and grabbed his keys, pulling on his jacket as he walked out the door, locking it behind him. He knew exactly where the garage was, he passed by it every day on the way to work, and so he didn’t even bother to pull it up on his phone. Instead, he just flipped on the stereo and let it start playing whatever cassette happened to be in there, which just so happened to be an album called “Brothers and Sisters” by The Allman Brothers Band. _Nice choice, third shift Dean_ , he congratulated himself as he pulled out of the apartment’s parking lot and pointed his car toward the direction of the garage.

 

About ten minutes later, give or take, he was pulling into the garage’s parking lot, turning off the engine and the rechecking himself in the rearview mirror, taking deep breaths as he tried to calm his nerves. He didn’t _need_ this job so much as he wanted it, wanted the extra security it would provide, but all the same he was nervous about making a good impression. With a town like this, word of mouth could travel fast, and if he made the wrong impression, it could mean less job opportunities down the line. If it was just Dean, if he had only himself to worry himself, then he probably wouldn’t even be trying for this. He didn’t care about making all the money in the world, he just wanted to be comfortable, and technically they were, or at least as comfortable as they ever had been. But with Sam to support, he wanted to make sure that his brother had every advantage he could get. Just because Dean hadn’t didn’t mean his brother had to go without as well.

 

Walking in the door, he was greeted by an older man with a neatly trimmed beard who wore a baseball cap. “Can I help you?” the man asked.

 

Dean nodded as he stepped forward, offering his hand, “Yeah, name’s Dean Winchester, I’m here for an interview.”

 

The guy reached out and shook his hand firmly. “Ah, Dean. I’m Bobby Singer, owner. Why don’t we go back in my office?”

 

After he lead him back into the office, they both got a chance to sit down and Bobby went over the resume that Dean provided him with, questioning him not only about his past jobs but about his skills. The interview naturally developed into more of a conversation, and Dean felt more and more at ease. _C’mon, I have to have this in the bag, right?_

 

“So, Dean,” Bobby started to ask, “what is it you want to do?”

 

Dean didn’t even have to think about his answer. “I want to make sure I can make enough to support my brother while he goes to school. He wants to be a lawyer, so I figure four years for undergrad and about three years of law school? That’s what Sam said, anyway.”

 

Bobby nodded. “I get that, but I mean, _after_ your brother graduates … what is it _you_ want to do?”

 

The older Winchester was taken aback a little by the question. No one had really asked him that before, and so he’d never considered it. Rubbing his chin, he glanced out the window, not wanting to totally pull an answer out of his ass - mainly because he had a feeling Bobby would see right through it - but at the same time he really wasn’t sure what answer to give. His gaze fell on his car sitting out there, black and majestic, and a small lightbulb seemed to flicker to life. Just barely, but it was there. “Well, if I had my choice? I’d like to work with cars. I’ve been servicing my own for years, and I really like working with my hands. This front desk stuff? I can do that, have done jobs like that for years. But I’d really like to get a chance in the garage itself someday.”

 

Nodding, it seemed like Bobby liked the answer, and the rest of the interview went extremely well, at least as far as Dean could see. So well that, at the end of it, Bobby offered him the part-time front desk job. “I only need a part-timer right now, but you work hard, show me how well you can do this, I’ll see about getting you in the shop here and there. Nothing big, mostly oil changes, stuff like that. But if you really want to make this a career, I can help start you out.”

 

Dean couldn’t help the face-splitting grin that immediately spread as he stood out, reaching out to shake Bobby’s hand. “That would be great, sir, I’d really like that.” They took a little time to discuss his start date and his availability - which was pretty good, considering the hours he kept at the hospital - and he ended up walking out of there feeling like he was on top of the world. The whole ride home he felt like his head was in the clouds, and as he made some dinner for Sam and himself, he found himself whistling to a random tune that was stuck in his head.

 

By the time he went into the hospital for his next shift, he was still whistling, in such good spirits he couldn’t even find it in himself to get pissed off that someone else had beat him to the good cart, taking the next one in line without a thought of protest or a sigh of exasperation. Not even the literal shit blowout in one of the bathrooms could get him down, as he just sighed and shook his head and grabbed the mop and paper towels and pulled on some gloves as he got to work. The extra shoulder grease he had to put into it didn’t phase him in the slightest. It was almost … odd. Being this happy. This upbeat. But hey, he wasn’t about to question it, was just going to revel in it. He’d had enough of struggle, enough of stressing. He wasn’t really sure where this new path would take him, but in his conversation with Bobby, he knew he couldn’t live for Sam forever. For now, yes, of course he would. He would devote every minute and every dollar toward his brother and his education. But after … well, for the first time in a long time, he had a little bit of hope for the future. For _his_ future. And it was strange.

 

As he rounded the corner, that same, face-splitting grin started to spread as he was unable to contain himself. Castiel was standing there, as he always was, and he seemed to pick up on the fact that Dean was in an extraordinary mood, and that only made the patient grin as well. “Heya, Cas,” he called out as he approached him.

 

“Hello, Dean,” the man replied, just as easily and steadily as he always did. “You … you seem to be in a good mood.”

 

“I am. I got another job!”

 

Castiel’s smile faltered. “Another job?”

 

“Yeah, a second one. It’s only part-time, but it’s really gonna help me and Sam.”

 

“Oh. So … are you going to keep working here?” Dean felt his smile slip as he realised that the man was concerned about him leaving, about never seeing him again. And, he had to admit, the thought made him a little tight in the chest, too.

 

“Oh yeah! I mean, eventually, it might turn into something full time, but … who knows when that will happen. Hey, maybe you’ll be out by the time it does! You’re still workin’ on that, right? With the doctor and the new meds and everything?”

 

Cas nodded. “It’s not easy, but I am _trying_.”

 

He looked a bit forlorn, like he was personally disappointed at the progress that he was making, and Dean’s hand was moving before he could even think about what he was doing, reaching out and lightly setting it on Cas’ shoulder. Cas jumped slightly, surprised at the contact, but he didn’t move, instead only looking him in the eye. “Hey, you’re doing the best you can with what ya got. And while I can’t speak for anyone else, that’s all I’ll ever ask of you.”

 

Castiel beamed, and Dean swore it felt like he’d captured lightening in a bottle, to see such a look of happiness on the man’s face and know that he put that smile there. All of a sudden, even though he was still happy about how well his interview had gone earlier that day, it somehow paled in comparison to that smile. _Could a day get any more perfect?_ Dean didn’t think so.


End file.
